


A Little Bit of Warmth

by SilverSkiesAtMidnight



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Minor and Unimportant Villain Character, Protective Wade Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 21:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18081623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSkiesAtMidnight/pseuds/SilverSkiesAtMidnight
Summary: Prompt: It's something that I've always wanted to read, but I don't know if anyone ever actually wrote it. It's just a good ol' hypothermia fic, where Peter falls into a frozen lake or something, it's okay as long as he's freezing to death when Wade saves him. And, you know, Wade has to warm him up so he brings him home and he's forced to take off his clothes and his mask (bonus points if the boxes make him feel like shit for it, telling him that when Spidey wakes up is gonna be /so/ pissed). Then he realizes that to actually warm him up he probably needs to lay down with him and use human warmth because his house is a shit hole, what else could he possibly do? So after freaking out for a minute or two about having to take his clothes off he finally does it and gets into bed with Peter.Then Peter wakes up, they both have a mild panic attack about being almost naked in bed, Wade assures him he was just trying to save his life...Look, as long as Wade is stupidly in love with Peter and Peter is not a complete asshole, I'm good.





	A Little Bit of Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> () - yellow box  
> [] - white box

The worst thing about supervillains, Peter decides, is their awful sense of timing. 

Okay, granted, no one hears “supervillain” and thinks “how convenient”, but _really?_ The guy couldn’t throw this big public debut of his freezing powers and anger issues in the summer, rather than making Peter fight him in the middle of fricking _December?_

And in _spandex,_ no less.

It just feels like it might be overkill. 

With a groan, Peter pushes himself up out of another snowdrift, tugging a snapped strand of half-frozen web fluid off his wrist. 

He actually doesn't mind the snowdrifts. It's pretty rare that supervillains send him flying into anything that soft. 

He _does_ very much mind his webbing’s apparent inability to handle magic ice blasts. 

When all this is over, his formula is definitely going through some tests and improvements in his freezer. 

The walking icicle with an attitude Peter is currently battling stands in the middle of 12th Avenue, pale blue energy sparking from his hands, a trail of frost spreading in fractal patterns across the asphalt with every footstep. 

He looks like he could’ve stepped right out of a bad Disney movie. 

Peter rises to face him, brushing snow from his shoulders. “You know, I’d say you really need to chill, but I think that would be the polar opposite of helpful right now.” 

He launches himself out of the way just in time to miss the beam of ice as it shoots through the space he just occupied, sending a giant poof of snow and shards of concrete flying into the air.

Man, some people have just lost their sense of joy in life if they can't even appreciate a good, high-quality double pun.

Luckily, the usual crowd of civilian spectators is entirely absent, though he spots a few faces and phone cameras peeking through the windows of the surrounding apartment buildings. Apparently, even this week’s supervillain attack isn't interesting enough to justify frostbite. 

Probably why the Avengers aren't out here freezing their butts off either. Dicks. 

Frosty the snow-jerk is getting angrier the longer they keep this up, and Peter doesn’t really have a plan for how to end it. His web fluid really wasn’t made to handle being frozen solid (though, since the dragon-cat experiment he fought several months back, it _can_ handle being set on fire. Not really helpful in this situation, but still. If this guy was fire-themed, Peter would be _so_ on top of this), and every attempt he’s made to web him up or restrain him so far has been easily shattered. 

“Do you truly think you can fight me, little bug?” he rumbles, and the temperature drops another degree. “You cannot halt the coming of winter.” Ice creeps and spreads about them both with every word, blooming across stone and steel. The surface of the river a couple hundred meters away grows pale and still, freezing into an icy plain. 

Peter is not too proud to admit that it is slightly intimidating. 

“That’s a little Game of Throne-sy, don’t you think?” he calls back. 

His spidey sense hums, warning him to move, _now_ , and he takes the hint. He flings a strand of webbing at the nearest building just as the villain raises his weapon, and yanks himself off the street with lightning speed.

Unfortunately, the other man is fast too. The ice strikes his web mid-arc, and rather than curving back to land on the pavement, his trajectory sends him sailing over the road and onto the surface of the river. 

He goes into a roll instinctively, shoulder taking the brunt of the impact with the ice, and he tumbles several feet in a spray of icy slivers before finally landing in a crouch. 

He goes still as marble, the ice creaking faintly underneath him.

 _Please don’t break please don’t break please don’t break_ , he silently chants. 

Several seconds pass, and the creaking stops. He rises slowly. 

_Okay. We're good, we're solid_. He gingerly steps forward. 

The ice promptly gives way beneath his feet.

Peter just has time to gasp before the water swallows him. The shock of cold crushes his chest, forcing his last breath back past his lips, and he twists blindly, reaching out for something to grab hold of in the inky blackness, until at last his hand smacks into solid ice. 

He feels around him, fingers scrabbling at the surface, but finds no sign of the hole he fell through. Panic rising in his burning chest, he lashes out desperately, drawing back and slamming his fist into the ice as hard as he can manage. Red stains the water around his hands, but he doesn’t stop. 

Just as his lungs feel about to burst, spots of color bursting in front of his eyes, it finally cracks above him. It takes all of his remaining strength to throw himself through the broken ice. 

The frigid air slices like razors against his chilled skin, the suit practically useless, and if he weren’t too busy dragging deep, greedy breaths of air into his lungs to speak, he would curse. 

Shivering, he treads water, trying to get his bearings. The air hurts to breathe, and his breath puffs out in pale clouds. He brushes through shards of shattered ice on the water’s surface, trying to find a solid edge to pull himself onto. 

The wind picks up speed, howling across the ice in swirls of snowflakes, forcing Peter to squint against it.

 _Ah crap. That’ll be Frosty._

Sure enough, turning his head he can see a shadow through the white haze, making its way steadily across the ice towards him. He raises a shaking wrist, but he already knows that the formula in his webshooters must be chilled to the point of uselessness. The figure gets closer, and the wind gains in speed and volume, cutting like a knife through his wet suit.

Abruptly, the figure stops. The gale rises, shrieking deafeningly around him, and then suddenly dies off. Snowflakes settle around him in the now-silent air. 

The man sways, and crumples to the ground.

A familiar scarlet shadow stands in his place, sword in hand. The shadow wipes the sword against its leg, and then starts towards him, quickly breaking into a jog.

Peter tries again to drag himself out of the water. His limbs are stiff and numb, muscles refusing to cooperate, and he’s only half on the ice by the time Wade reaches him. 

“Hey, hey, _Jesus,_ are you okay? C’mon, let’s get you out of there, I’m cold just looking at you.” He wraps his arms around the shivering superhero, hauling him up out of the water. Peter has to sling an arm around the other man’s shoulder just to stand. Wade pats anxiously at his chest and shoulders. “Are you hurt?” he demands urgently. 

Peter bats his hands away. “I’m _f-fine,_ just r-really cold,” he forces through chattering teeth. He looks back across the ice, towards the dark lump lying where he fell. “Did y-you st-t-ab Frosty w-with a sword?”

Wade snorts in what doesn’t quite sound like amusement. “Who, the supervillain who was about thirty seconds away from turning you into an ice cube? Nah, I took him out to a nice dinner and a movie.” His voice is light, but there’s a dark note underneath. “Trust me baby boy, if I had time I’d have done a lot worse than stab him.” He tugs him lightly forward. “You can scold me for killing later, right now we gotta move. I don’t think this ice is going to last much longer now that he’s gone.”

They move at a shuffle. Peter does his best to control the violent trembling ripping through him, with little success. He pushes his numb legs forward with no small amount of effort. 

To his credit, he makes it to the edge of the ice before they give out completely beneath him. 

He slumps down against Wade, who twists quickly to catch him. “Hey hey hey, you’re okay, I got you,” he murmurs, lowering him gently to the ground. Peter can read the concern in the stiffness of his shoulders, even without being able to see his face. “Your healing factor’s got this, right?” 

Peter’s brow furrows, considering. It’s hard to focus on the question, his head feeling strange and muzzy. He’s never actually _been_ this cold before. “I dunno. Probably?” 

Wade tsks, sounding frustrated. “‘Probably’ ain’t gonna cut it, baby boy,” he mutters. 

He seems to think it over for a moment, and then abruptly there’s an arm under Peter’s knees, and he’s being scooped into a bridal carry. He yelps in alarm and protest, trying to wiggle out of the larger man’s grasp. 

“Quit squirming,” Wade scolds. “I need to get you somewhere warm and you're clearly in no condition to use your own legs.” 

Peter’s struggles have trailed off before Wade’s done speaking, his pride quickly shutting up in the face of the sheer _warmth_ radiating off the mercenary. Without any conscious thought on his part, he folds deeper into the heat. Peter feels the other man stiffen around him. “Sorry,” he mumbles in the large, warm chest, making no effort to move away. “‘S just really warm.” 

Wade gives a forced chuckle. “No problem, ma petite arachnid. Always happy to be a space heater.” He stops, realizing he’s not sure where he’s going. He gives the man in his arms a gentle shake. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep. Listen, totally not trying to invade your privacy here, but do you think you can tell me your address?”

Peter mumbles something into Wade’s shoulder, gestures vaguely to what could be all of Manhattan, and burrows even closer.

(Take him back to our place.)

“That’s a terrible idea. You’ve _seen_ where we live, right?” he argues. 

[You’ve got to take him _somewhere_.]

He weighs his options with growing frustration. Obviously he can't just leave the nearly unconscious man in his arms there in the street and hope he makes it home safely, and a mental survey of his “friends” reveals the rather depressing truth that none of them can be trusted around the superhero.

(We could call the Avengers. They’ve got magic hospitals and stuff in that tower, right?)

“Are you kidding me? Iron Dick - actually, that’s a terrible insult, and by that I mean it’s terrible at _being_ an insult - would try and find out his secret identity the second we walked through the doors!” 

[Go through a window, then.]

“That’s not the point and you know it. Ha, and you’re supposed to be the smart one.” he mutters. 

(Rude!) 

Wade ignores the now-bickering boxes, chewing anxiously on his lip. 

“Fine!” he cuts white off mid-taunt. “We’ll take him back to our place. But don’t blame me when he doesn’t call us in the morning.” 

[We won’t blame you. He will.]

Wade doesn’t answer that. 

***

He takes the back alleys as quickly as he can, the rooftops ruled out with such precious cargo in his arms. It's not too far to his building, luckily, and he gets them up the fire escape and indoors in under fifteen minutes.

The apartment is even more of wreck than he had remembered, suddenly conscious of the bloodstain across the bedroom wall from last night’s temporary suicide and the trash scattered wildly across every available surface. 

Wade has to swipe a small pile of extra ammo and taco wrappers off the bedspread just to put the hero down. 

“Heh. Sorry Spidey, I’d have cleaned up around here if I’d known _you_ would be in my bedroom today!” he jokes with a forced laugh. 

The smaller man doesn’t respond, completely still on the bed.

Wade pokes him tentatively. “Spidey?”

[Isn’t it a bad thing when they stop shivering?]

“Shit,” Wade hisses. 

He hesitates for only a moment before springing into motion. 

The wet clothes have got to go, he knows. Wade sets the limp superhero propped up against him, and quickly works to peel the wet spandex off.

“If you can hear me, I hope you know I would totally not be undressing you without your consent if it weren’t purely for health reasons, I swear. Under sexier circumstances, I prefer a LOT more life in my partners.”

He succeeds in wrestling the chilled suit off, doing his best to resist pausing to admire the lean muscles underneath. He leaves the damp boxers on, deciding they’re not enough of a threat to justify violating his privacy THAT badly. 

He lays the costume out on the dresser almost reverently, smoothing it out so it won’t dry with any wrinkles. 

He turns back to the bed, and stops short.

[Yeah, the mask has got to come off too.]

“But keeping his secret identity is super duper important to him, though. Nobody _ever_ gets to see his face. I can’t just _take his mask off_ when he’s not even awake!” Wade argues. 

(You know what I bet is even more important to him? Being ALIVE.)

He hovers uncertainly next to the bed. 

[Get it over with, you know you have to do it.]

“He’s going to hate us,” Wade mumbles.

(Well, we knew that was coming at some point anyway.)

He takes a deep breath, then, with grim determination, grips the edge of the mask and tugs it up over Peter’s head.

In the months since meeting the hero, Wade’s spent plenty of time wondering about the face under the mask. He is not disappointed.

“Damn it, _of course_ he’s cute as hell.”

Peter’s lips are alarmingly blue. Brown hair hangs in limp curls about his face. His skin is so pale it’s nearly translucent, and every freckle and the many, small white scars that decorate his skin stand out in contrast.

Still, he’s _perfect_.

Peter’s forehead wrinkles slightly, and he curls in on himself.

(Get him under the blanket, idiot.)

Right. Hypothermia. 

Wade pulls the covers out from beneath him, draping them over his limp form, tucking them in carefully so only his face peeks out. 

[He’ll warm up faster with body heat.]

“I’m not crawling into bed with him when he’s unconscious, that’s just creepy,” Wade mutters.

(Do you WANT him to get frostbite?)

“Alright, alright, shut up,” he strips out of his suit and chucks it and his katanas into a corner. 

Reluctantly, he lifts up the covers on the far edge of the bed and slides under, keeping as far away as physically possible without falling off the bed.

 

Peter shifts in his sleep, beginning to shiver again slightly. Wade is fairly sure that’s a good sign. 

Peter wriggles his way closer to Wade’s warmth, burrowing under the blanket until he’s butting up against his side. 

 

Wade freezes, unsure of what to do. He is painfully aware that Peter would never be this close to him if he were conscious.

 

And could see him out of his suit.

(Appreciate it while he's here, ugly. It's the closest you're ever going to get to him.) 

Hesitantly, he lets his arm curl around the man at his side. 

 

Peter sighs and scrunches closer. 

Wade gently rubs his slowly-warming shoulder. “Sleep well, baby boy. Heal up and be okay, okay?”

He rests his chin on the mess of curls, listening to Peter’s steady breathing. Before he knows it, his eyes slip shut, and he drifts into a peaceful sleep.

***

Peter wakes up enveloped in soft, comfortable warmth. He floats, bits and pieces of the world around him slowly drifting into his consciousness. He feels fabric shift softly against his skin, and he stretches, a slight ache in his muscles coming into focus, followed by sharp twinges as he tugs on bruises he doesn’t yet remember, making him hiss slightly. 

Someone moves next to him.

Peter’s eyes snap open, fully awake in an instant. 

Whoever is in the bed beside him tenses.

Peter yelps, and scrambles backward across the bed, kicking wildly at the body next to him. His legs tangle in the blankets, and he manages to shove both of them off opposite sides of the bed. He lands completely ungracefully on his back on the floor, knocking the wind out of himself. There’s a matching “Oof” from the other side. 

It takes him a moment to catch his breath, and then he sits up to look across the bed, legs still hooked in the sheets. There’s rustling from beneath his line of sight, and then Deadpool’s familiar masked face pops up.

“Baby boy! You’re okay!” 

Peter stares at him for a moment in shock. “No! Not ‘okay’! Why was I in bed with you? Where are we? What the hell happened?” he squeaks, becoming slightly more panicked with every word.

His heart suddenly plummets as realization dawns on him. 

“My mask is off.”

“Listen, please don’t freak out, I can explain - “

“Why is my mask off? What did you do? Why would you - _how DARE you - ”_

_“You were DYING.”_

That stops him short. Wade waits till he’s sure he’s stopped freaking out so loudly before continuing.

“You fell. In the river. Remember? Your whole suit was soaked and you were really really cold, so I took it and your mask off so you’d warm up. That’s why we were in the bed together, I was just trying to warm you up.” Even from across the bed, Peter can read the tight defensiveness in the other man’s shoulders. 

Peter blinks at him. “Oh.” It’s all coming back to him now, the villain, falling through the ice, the bitter, bone-deep cold. The last thing he remembers is Wade carrying him through the city, and the warmth of being (embarrassingly) pressed up against his chest. 

“Oh,” he repeats, flushing. “Um. Thank you. I guess? No, definitely, thank you, I’m um. Really glad you did that.” 

Wade huffs, some of the tension draining out of him. “No problem Spidey, freezing to death sucks _balls_ I know.” 

“Heh,” Peter laughs awkwardly.

“And here!” Wade disappears behind the bed again, coming up a moment later with something red clutched in his hands. He tosses it to Peter, who catches it on reflex.

It’s his mask, crumpled and still cold to the touch. 

“And, uh, I’ve got the rest of your suit over here too. I know it probably doesn’t do much good _now,_ but whenever you want, you can put that on and...and...we can just forget all about this whole thing, okay?” There’s a note of desperation in his voice now. 

Peter looks down at the mask in his hands, smoothing out the slightly damp fabric with his thumbs. 

“Do you want me to go? You can get dressed, and there’s a fire escape right there if you want to leave.” Wade says quietly.

“I want...to take a shower,” Peter says slowly. He looks up at the wide white eyes of Wade’s mask. “You do have a shower, right?” 

Wade nods quickly. “Y..yeah. Right through there.” He points at an open bathroom door. Then he blinks. “Wait, do you really have to ask? I don’t smell _that_ bad, do I?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Just checking.” He looks down at himself, considering just wrapping the sheet around himself to walk over to the bathroom in a last-ditch attempt at preserving some shred of dignity. Wade picks up on his thought process. 

“Right!” He pulls the blanket on his side around himself and stands, keeping it draped around him like a cloak. He heads for the door. “Take as long as you need, sugarplum! I’ll be in the kitchen!” And he disappears in a swirl of pink blanket. 

***

The shower is absolute bliss, and Peter revels in the feeling of the hot water beating down on his sore muscles, washing away all the previous day’s sweat and grimy river water. 

He stays there until the water begins to turn cold, feeling slightly guilty as he climbs out. He hopes Wade wasn’t looking forward to a warm shower anytime soon.

Back in the bedroom, he finds Wade must have come back in while he was in the shower, because there’s a soft t-shirt and a pair of clean sweatpants waiting for him on the bed. He puts them on gratefully. 

He hesitates over the mask, picking it up off the bed. Then, he tosses it back down, and slips out of the bedroom. 

He finds Wade right where he said he’d be: in the kitchen. 

He’s exchanged his pink blanket for a fluffy pink robe and a red apron, and is whistling cheerfully from his position in front of the stove. He pokes at the pancakes sizzling in front of him, his mask pulled up just over his mouth and nose, apparently so he can freely snack from the bowl of fresh blueberries right beside him. 

He turns as Peter pads into the kitchen, and happily brandishes a spatula at him. 

Peter stops dead. Wade is wearing a Spider-Man apron. He strikes a pose when he sees Peter staring. “Do you like it? I had it custom made,” he says proudly. 

Maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the past day catching up with him, maybe it’s just the absurdity of seeing the infamous killer _Deadpool_ making pancakes in an apron with his own alter-ego’s face on it, but Peter can’t help himself. He cracks up. He laughs straight from the belly, his sore and bruised muscles protesting and ignored. He wipes tears out of his eyes, only to see Wade staring at him through the comically wide eyes of his mask, and loses it all over again. It isn’t until his ribs hurt too much to continue that he’s finally able to catch his breath. He leans against the wall, clutching his ribs, still grinning. 

“Thanks man, I really needed that.”

Wade is still staring at him, and Peter runs a hand through his hair, suddenly self conscious. Before either of them can speak again, Peter’s stomach interjects with a very loud growl. Wade jolts, yelps “right!”, and the next second is gathering up several teetering towers of pancakes already stacked on plates, setting them on the table and ushering Peter over to sit down. 

He moves the plates in front of Peter, and sets a bottle of maple syrup and a bottle of whipped cream next to them with a flourish. 

“I wasn’t sure what your favorite kind was, so I made normal, blueberry, _and_ chocolate chip!” 

Peter’s stomach rumbles again, gratefully this time. 

“Jesus God, _thank you,_ ” he tells Wade, completely sincere, already shoveling a mix of flavors onto his plate. Damn superhero metabolism. 

Wade takes a bow, complete with the little hand twirl, and then goes back to tend to the pancakes still on the stove. 

A few minutes later, he’s brought over his own plate, and joins Peter in companionable pancake devouring. 

Peter makes it through two whole plates before his stomach starts to protest, and he sets his fork down, looking regretfully at the remaining pancakes. He’s pretty sure his apartment is down to being stocked with approximately two (2) bags of ramen, and possibly some milk. 

Apparently reading his thoughts, Wade gestures casually at the other plates. “Feel free to take some home with you.” 

He perks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, of course, baby boy!” he says cheerfully. 

“You’re a lifesaver, Wade.” He clears his throat, a little awkwardly. “Literally. I don’t think I actually thanked you for saving my life. So, um. Thank you.” 

Wade shrugs, dipping his head uncomfortably. “Eh, anyone else would have done the same.” 

“No, not everyone else would have,” Peter counters. “Most people would have… have called the cops, or the Avengers, or heck, just left me there to freeze. You didn’t have to take me into your house, or, or kept me warm all night, or any of that. You didn’t just save my life, you saved my _identity_ , and that.. that really means a lot to me.” He looks down at his empty plate, and wished his superpower was expressing himself in a way that _didn’t_ sound totally lame. He snorts. “You didn’t have to make me pancakes either, but you did that too.” 

He looks up, and sees Wade is looking at him, face unreadable through the mask. 

“Hey, anything for you, baby boy,” and there’s something in his voice that makes whatever Peter was going to say next stick in his throat, and he simply smiles at Wade in response, and hopes that’s enough. 

Suddenly, Peter looks over at the clock hanging in the kitchen. “Ah, _shit_.” 

Wade gives a scandalized gasp. “ _Language!_ ”

Peter ignores him, leaping out of his chair to bolt into the bedroom, a confused Wade following. 

“My boss is going to _kill_ me, damnit, I didn’t even call in.” He eyes the suit briefly, then decides the mask will have to do. “Do you have a bag I could borrow?” 

Wade nods, opening one of the drawers and rummaging around in it. “What, your boss won’t let you take a day off after a supervillain attack?” 

“Nah, he hates my guts, and besides I’ve already skipped way too many days.” Wade tosses him a canvas World Wildlife Fund tote bag with a picture of a panda on it. Peter quickly stuffs the suit into it. 

“Wait!” Wade yelps, and bolts back out of the bedroom. Thirty seconds later, he’s back, carrying a large ziplock bag full of leftover pancakes. “Can’t leave without my world famous pancakes!” 

“World famous, huh?” Peter grins, taking the bag. “I’d settle for ‘edible’, but if you want to give me world famous pancakes, I’m not complaining.” He grabs the mask off the bed, hopping easily up onto the window ledge. He turns back, hands braced against the frame. 

“Seriously. Thank you. For everything.” And with a graceful twist, he’s gone. 

Wade doesn’t go over to the window to watch him swing away. He stays in the bedroom for a long time after that, quiet for once. Even the boxes are subdued. 

When he leaves, he leaves the window open. 

...

Two days later, there’s a knock on his front door. Wade doesn’t bother looking through the peephole. He throws the door open, gun already cocked and raised. 

In a sing-song voice, he greets, “Hellooo, Weasel, you little fu-”

His gun is pointed at empty air. 

“Wade!” a voice hisses. He looks up, confused, and finds:

“SPIDEY!” 

Peter gestures furiously at him from his position on the ceiling, the panda bag on his arm swinging as he does, nearly smacking Wade in the head. “Put the gun down before you get someone killed!”

“Oh! Shit, right,” he stuffs it back into his waistband, and Peter cautiously drops down to the floor beside him. 

“Do you think I could come in?”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah of course.” 

He steps aside to allow Peter through, closing the door behind him. 

“So...what brings you to this neck of the woods?” he asks, with a nervous laugh. 

Peter shrugs. “No criminals or anything. I just thought I’d visit. Plus I wanted to return your stuff and everything.” He hands Wade the bag, which he realizes contains the clothes he lent him several days ago. He blinks in surprise. 

“Aw, Spidey, you didn’t have to come all the way back here for that,” he mumbles. 

“No, no, it’s okay, I wanted to,” Peter reassures him. He runs a hand through his hair. “Hey, so listen, I was thinking, we’ve sort of known each other for awhile now, and you don’t really keep _your_ identity a secret, but I do, and I’m sorry about that, it’s just that, you know, I’ve got people I care about who could get hurt, and it’s just really hard to know who I can trust -”

“Spidey,” Wade cuts him off, in a _what’s your point_ kind of voice. 

Peter hesitates for a moment, then sticks his hand out, mouth set in a determined line. 

“It’s Peter. My name’s Peter.”

Wade stares at him in shock, speechless. 

Peter drops his hand after a beat, twisting it around the other nervously. “Just...thought you have a right to know. You won’t tell anyone, right? I mean, you’ve already seen my face, so it’s not like I’m really telling you anything you couldn’t have found out on your own -”

“You don’t owe me that.” 

It’s Peter’s turn to stare in surprise. “I know that. I know - of course I don’t _owe_ it to you, are you kidding me? I’m telling you because I want you to know. Look, I think of you as my friend, okay? I _like_ spending time with you, and at this point, I can honestly say I trust you. I’m trusting you with my name because I think you deserve to be trusted. _Accept it._ ” 

Wade looks down, fidgeting with his gloves. Peter tries, but can’t quite read his expression, even through the usually expressive mask. Finally, he looks back up. 

“So, Peter, huh? I always had you pegged as a Tom for some reason.” 

Peter grins so broadly it makes Wade’s breath catch. “Tom’s a cool name, so I’m just going to take that as a compliment.” 

Wade can’t help beaming back. “It is! I mean, you could’ve seemed like the type of person to have some sort of really stupid name. Like...Alf.” His eyes widen. “ _Wait._ Are you an alien? Is that how you got your powers? _Are you some sort of weird alien spider in a human skin?_ ”

“No, no, native to Earth here. I don’t think there are any alien spiders named ‘Peter’.” 

Wade scoffs. “Well _obviously_ you’re not going to use your _real_ name, _Wcdbhsihroig._ ” 

Peter stares at him as though offended. “That is _blatantly_ a giant grasshopper name, Wade, you culturally insensitive jerk,” he says, fighting desperately to keep a straight face.

Wade puts his hand to his chest in mock horror. “How could I be such a fool?”

Peter puts a hand on his hip like he’s considering. “I’ll tell you what: I won’t contact the mothership to tell them that this planet needs to be destroyed, _if_ you can give me some delicious reason why it should continue to exist.”

Wade blinks at him. “Is this your way of saying you want food?”

 _“Please.”_

He beams. “Of course, Petey-boy! What are you in the mood for? Tacos? Waffles? More pancakes? Some nice, juicy flies?”

Peter wrinkles his nose. “Anything is fine with me as long as it has at no point in time been any kind of insect.”

“Tacos it is. Feel free to sit wherever, by the way.”

He chooses to sit on a stool in the kitchen while Wade gathers ingredients, Wade talking as he moves.

“So, not that you’re not welcome to raid my kitchen any day of the week, but don’t you have food at home? You’re not some sad street orphan or anything, are you? Because that would be overdoing it on the tragic origin story.”

Peter snorts. “Nah, just broke. Photography pays crap.”

“Ooh, artsy. What do you photograph?”

“Myself.” 

“Those must be some really good selfies if you’re making money off it.”

“Myself as Spider-Man,” Peter clarifies. “I sell them to the newspaper I work for.” 

Wade stops, and turns to stare at him. “Wait. That’s not the Daily Bugle, is it?” 

Peter looks at him in surprise. “Yeah, it is. How did you know?” 

Wade’s frowning at him now. “They always have way better photos of you than anyone else. Why are you working for a newspaper that hates you?” 

He shrugs. “They hate me enough to write about me practically every day. That’s a lot of photos, so, at least it’s consistent.” 

“Pshh, screw consistency, your boss is a dick. Hey, can I kill him for you?”

_“No.”_

“Fussy. Fine, then, I’ll just have to offer you an open kitchen to come by and visit anytime you want.” 

Peter grins brightly. “I’m most definitely going to take you up on that offer.” 

“Aand, tacos are almost ready. Hey, have you ever seen The Golden Girls?”

… 

By the end of the night, Peter has seen most of the first season of Golden Girls, and enjoyed what are unsurprisingly the most delicious tacos he’s ever had. 

“Yeah, there’s no way I’m not coming back for your cooking skills at this point,” he informs Wade. 

Wade laughs. “Give me a little heads up next time and I’ll give you a _real_ dinner.” 

Peter cocks his head thoughtfully. “Do you want my number?” He asks abruptly. Wade nearly chokes on a bite of taco. 

“ _Um_ , is Jeff Goldblum secretly actually the Grandmaster visiting our planet to play himself for kicks?”

“Is...he?”

_“Yes.”_

Peter shrugs, and puts out his hand. “Gimme your phone.” 

He puts his number under a new contact with the name “Peter”, and a little spider emoji. 

***

By this point in the night, he’s comfy and full of tacos, and Wade’s couch is soft as hell. 

So he really can’t be blamed for the fact that, over the course of the next episode, he slowly melts into the cozy couch (and into Wade) without even really noticing. 

They’re halfway into the episode after that when Wade looks down to find him fast asleep, head on his chest. 

They’re an unknown number of episodes past that when Peter floats back into awareness to find Wade with his chin resting on top of his head, his breathing deep and even beneath him. 

Peter sighs, settles closer to Wade, and drifts back to sleep, safe and warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh. Ugh. You guys, writing this fic was like trying to put makeup on an angry eel. I started this fic way back in 2016, wrote about 90% of it, and hated it so much that I couldn't bring myself to finish the last scene or two and edit, let alone post it. I found it again today while digging through my drive for something I felt like working on, and decided fuck it, this story doesn't get to haunt me with its unfinishedness any longer. So it...it exists in the world now. Hopefully folks with a little more distance from it like it more than I do. 
> 
> Also, to whoever it was who initially gave me this prompt, I am very sorry. Hopefully you still want to read it three years later. Better late than never, eh?


End file.
